


Avalon

by BrassOctopi



Series: Across the Tintagel Sea [1]
Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Heaven, Heaven is not canon Magi heaven, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:37:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3481574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrassOctopi/pseuds/BrassOctopi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sinbad wakes on a boat - alone, without his vessels, and very confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avalon

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based off the song "Shores of Avalon" by Tina Malia - I highly suggest listening to it before or during reading!

He awoke on a boat. The clothes he wore were plain linen, and for a moment, he thought he was back in childhood, before he was a king and before he wore silk as an everyday necessity. The cabin was small, barely furnished, and completely foreign to him. He couldn’t remember how he came to be there. A night of drinking? No, surely not. His body ached all over, distracting him, before suddenly feeling fine. It was a very, very odd feeling.

The king rose off the small bed cautiously, keeping an ear and eye out for anyone who might attack him. The air was eerily still, and when he pushed open the door to his cabin, it swung out without a sound. The only thing breaking the silence, in fact, seemed to be his footsteps on the smooth wood, muffled by simple leather shoes. He was fairly certain he hadn’t owned shoes like these for years, as well.

Exiting the cabin with the same caution, he made his way around the small boat, worry increasing as he did. There wasn’t a single living soul in any corner, nor were there supplies in case of a long journey. His metal vessels were nowhere to be found. Even more distressing, the boat appeared to have its own idea on where they were headed, steadily moving straight forward despite a lack of wheel or rudder. The strange vessel also lacked a sail, which wouldn’t matter much anyway, as the black waters were as unnaturally still as the air. He searched in vain for some sort of motor that powered it, finding nothing. A feeling of sourness filled his stomach, flipping it in a form of worry he hadn’t felt in over a decade.

Somewhere in the distance, the king heard a woman crying and a man screaming. Both sounded familiar, but so far away that he couldn’t place it. With a lack of anything else to do, he strained his ears, trying to figure out who was making noise. Was someone else in this godforsaken place? Surely there was no one else on the boat: it was small enough that he’d lapped it several times already, and it was impossible that someone was hiding from him on it. Another boat, perhaps? He peered into the darkness surrounding his own ship, but could make out no other boats.

The sound was growing more distant. The sour feeling in his stomach increased.

Out of the darkness, to the bow, a large shape began to appear. Immediately he ran to the rail, gripping so tight his knuckles turned white. At the very least, he hoped to find food on the island (was it an island?), if not someone who could explain his bizarre situation. His hopes grew as the boat drew closer, seeming to accelerate as it found its destination, a city in the distance with a single dock jutting out from the shore. Cities meant people; people meant answers.

In fact, to his delight, there were a couple already standing on the dock. They seemed to be in animated conversation, with the smaller figure (a woman?) using quick, agitated movements while the larger (a man?) appeared to be soothing her. His heart sank, however, when the boat silently pulled up to the dock and stopped, allowing the couple to come close enough for him to recognize them.

“Sinbad,” the woman said, her voice soft and familiar, even after a decade and a half of not hearing it. “It’s been so long, my son.” The man beside her, his father, smiled.

Sinbad, King of Sindria, Conqueror of Seven Dungeons, Leader of the Seven Seas Alliance, had not shed tears in front of another in many years.

Sinbad, son of Esra and Badr, began to weep, realizing exactly where he was.

In a flurry of motion, he rushed off the boat, throwing himself into his parents’ arms and holding them tightly. His mother looked so much healthier than he remembered her being in life: a rounder face, a healthy glow, despite the tears on her face matching his. His father had regained the leg he lost in the war. Sinbad almost felt like a child again, together with his family, whole and healthy and apparently safe.

Once they’d calmed down some, Esra held him at arm’s length, eyes filled with worry. “You shouldn’t be here yet. You’re too young!”

“He can’t help it, dear,” Badr soothed, putting an arm around his wife’s waist. Sinbad jolted, realizing he hadn’t remembered what his father sounded like after all those decades. “It isn’t like he chose to die.”

“So I _am_ dead,” Sin repeated, voice somewhat hollow in his confirmation.

“You are,” his father agreed, nodding. “The good news is, of course, that this is Heaven, not Hell.”

“It’s different than I expected,” he said drily, causing Badr to laugh, while Esra covered a smile. “Heaven’s supposed to be clouds, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t like anyone’s gone back to correct them,” Esra replied. “Once you’re here, you’re here.”

Sinbad looked out to the sea, which seemed just as vast as it did when he first woke on the little ship. “Surely if you can sail _to_ a place you can sail _away_ from it,” he argued, shading his eyes with his hand. His parents frowned, and Esra took a step forward to lay a hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry, Sin. It doesn’t work like that. You’ve reached the Isles of the Blest, there’s no going back.”

“That’s not an option.” He scowled, heading back towards the boat and inspecting it to see if he could figure out how it worked. If he needed to, he would fashion an oar and force it to go back the way it came. He’d surpassed every wave to this point, read them and overcame them, whether the waves were literal or metaphorical. There was no way he was going to let one small boat get the better of him.

“Sinbad,” Badr tried again, leaving Esra’s side to pull him away from the boat. “You can’t go back. I know it’s hard – we understand - ”

“You don’t!” Sinbad snapped, frustration with himself and with the damned sea vessel getting the better of him. “You don’t, because you weren’t a king of a new country and Mother’s here!” He took a deep breath, calming himself slightly. It wasn’t Badr’s fault, nor Esra’s, that he couldn’t get back home. “I need to get back to Sindria. Mom said it herself, I was too young to die. It was a fluke. I can go home.”

A smaller hand rested atop Badr’s, and Sinbad went still. “Sinbad. Let’s go eat a meal and talk. It’s been so long, and I promise you that you can come back and look at the boat all you like after.” There was a pause, and when she spoke again, Sinbad realized she was trying not to cry. He’d never felt more like a callous animal in his life (or, he supposed, death). “I just want to talk to you, is that all right?”

Deflating, he allowed himself to be led away from the dock. “Of course,” he murmured, leaning slightly against his mother’s arm. “Just a talk.”

-

As they entered and moved through the city, Sinbad began to notice something _else_ odd, as if the afterlife hadn’t given him enough surprises already. After the third familiar street, populated by familiar vendors, he dug his heels in, refusing to keep walking. “Mom,” he started cautiously, looking down at Esra, “where exactly is this?”

Esra had the good sense to look abashed. “It’s your own personal heaven.” She looked to Badr, biting her lower lip. “Ours is wherever you’re happiest, so we’re here too. But this is your place, really.” The sour feeling in Sinbad’s stomach came back with a vengeance.

“You’re saying this is Sindria.”

“A replica,” she corrected quietly. “Not the real Sindria.”

“And all these people?” His voice was hollow, the experience too draining to feed his anger anymore. “They’re replicas?”

“No, no,” Badr cut in, sympathetic. “Whatever created heaven can’t replicate human souls. Some of them are… well, essentially, they’re angels. Others are people who have died, whose happiest place was Sindria. Quite a few of the people here are that type, actually. You made a lot of people happy, Sin.”

His son was silent, looking around with an odd mix of pride and horror. He caught the eye of a woman selling fruit, and she seemed to light up, waving to him. She bustled over, carrying a basket of pears. “Your highness! We all figured you would come someday. We’ll be hostin’ a festival tonight, that’s for sure!” She held out the basket, which he took with a quiet word of thanks. “Can’t believe it’s been so long already! My, the years must fly by – you look as young as you did when I died, though! Heaven is good to us, isn’t it, your highness?”

“That’s one way to put it,” he agreed, tone still faint. Esra put her hand on his arm, smiling at the woman.

“He’s a bit surprised by it all, Pari. Let him get settled in, won’t you? I’m sure he’d love to talk at a later time.”

Pari laughed, waving her hand. “Oh, he doesn’t need to talk with the likes of me! But if you ever need fresh fruits, you know where to find me.” She smiled and headed back to her stall, leaving behind the shell-shocked king and his parents. Esra began tugging her son forward again.

“Time doesn’t move here like it does on earth,” Badr explained, moving to walk on Sinbad’s other side. “We stay young and healthy, for one. And you appear here like you were at your healthiest, so they’ll assume that you lived to old age.”

“But you don’t,” Sinbad observed, squinting into the midday sun. It glinted off the teal tiles of the palace roof, just as it had in days before, in the real Sindria. “You knew from the start that I died like this.”

“We’ve watched you,” Esra replied, eyes downcast. “You can do that. Most people choose not to – it hurts, seeing someone you love grow old, or go through trials. Sometimes they simply forget how long it’s been.” She looked up, smiling sheepishly at him. “Forgive your worrisome mother for being worried herself.”

Sinbad’s heart clenched, and he pulled her closer. “There’s nothing to forgive.” How could there be? His mother’s love and devotion had carried into death; how was he supposed to be mad about that? As for privacy, what was done was done. So long as she never caught him in his misdeeds, or at least never brought them up, he would be content.

\--

The walk to the palace was interrupted a few more times, including once by a gaggle of children running up and offering him a flower crown. Sinbad was delighted, until the realization hit him that at least some of the children had likely died to come here. He hoped they were all angels, born and raised in this heaven.

The guards at the gate greeted him cheerfully. One broke post to shake his hand, explaining that he had served Sinbad in life and had been waiting for him quite a while. His wife and daughter, he added, lived with him in a simple house in the city, and they would be so grateful if he would say hello someday. The king agreed, feeling more than a bit guilty knowing this man had put his life on the line for him and died because of it, although he seemed to harbor no hard feelings. Sinbad wondered if time in Heaven took that from you.

The inside of the palace was silent. The servants who normally bustled about were nowhere to be seen, yet the halls were spotless and fresh flowers bloomed in every vase. Their footsteps echoed as they made their way to his rooms, Esra and Badr keeping quiet in respect for their very overwhelmed child. He paused at the door before his; just as ornate as his own, wood from the island carved with local flora and fauna. The only thing that set it apart from the one leading to his room were the serpents to either side, a little joke from him to his unamused advisor.

He tried the handle; it gave under his palm, and he moved back, as though the metal had burned him. The idea of entering Ja’far’s rooms without permission, even in death, seemed like sacrilege. Well aware that his parents were watching him, he quickly headed on to his own room, hiding the fact that his heart ached for what he could no longer have.

They’d barely opened the door to his front room when a serving girl appeared, smiling brightly. She looked like any other Sindrian girl, with bronzed skin and low pigtails, and unlike Pari or the guardsman made no note of Sinbad’s presence being unusual. “Greetings, your highness. Can I offer any refreshments for you and your family?” The man hesitated, still a bit startled by her sudden appearance.

“Yes, thank you,” Esra answered for him. “A simple meal, please. Nothing too rich.” The girl nodded and disappeared as quickly as she had come, while Esra led her son into the room and closed the door behind them.

“That wasn’t a person,” Sin blurted out, frowning as he sat on one of the plush couches that lined his anteroom.

“No, she wasn’t,” Badr agreed patiently, sitting next to his wife with a small smile. “They’re not very good at subtlety, whatever they are, but they’re kindly and harmless. You get used to them after a while.” Sinbad considered this. He’d seen odder in dungeons and his travels, and at least these wouldn’t attack him, if his father was to be believed.

“But enough of that. You’ll have plenty of time to learn it later. Tell us your story, Sin,” his mother urged, leaning forward. He couldn’t keep from smiling; he couldn’t remember seeing his mother this animated. It was one of the few things keeping him from throwing himself back on the boat he’d sailed in on.

“You said you watched me. What more is there to tell?”

Esra laughed, shaking her head. “You know as well as I do that a story is better told by its subject. So much happened in your life, dear, tell your poor old mother about it. I never heard about your dungeon adventure.”

Unable to resist her request, he sat forward with a grin. “Well, you’ll remember it started with my conscription…”

\--

Hours turned into days, days into weeks, and still he dreamt about going home to the real Sindria. His days were spent either with his parents, talking and laughing the way he always wished he could have as a child, or wandering through the new Sindria, talking with people who had died under his rule as king. It seemed like in this Heaven, no one went without. Rent did not exist, and every person had a house of their own. Children who died but remembered Sindria were taken care of by parents, grandparents, other relatives; lacking one, they went to women who died before their children, who were happy to have a child again. Money appeared in pockets, allowing children to buy sweets and adults to buy all the food they needed, and there was never a shortage. All in all, it was the utopia Sinbad had wanted his nation to be.

In fact, as Heaven was supposed to, the new Sindria wanted to cater to his every whim. Most of its attempts were innocuous: parties almost every night, good wine and beautiful music. The one he couldn’t quite handle were the women. Of course he loved women! He had never _stopped_ loving women, and he didn’t always turn down the mix of angelic and departed girls vying for his company. No, what bothered him was that his love, the one whose bed he returned to over and over, was no longer with him.

He missed Ja’far in far more activities than he realized. Missed the haranguing to be productive when he spent the days lazing around, or the yelling that he needed to sort out his priorities when he was caught with a giggling woman on his lap. Afternoons spent with beautiful girls braiding his hair, tucking in violets that matched his shade _just so_ seemed empty without the risk of being caught.

The place he missed him most, however, was in his bed at night. Even without the sex – and oh, wouldn’t Ja’far’s jaw drop to hear him say it, that he’d forgo sex forever if it meant being with him? – he wanted to hold the younger man, whisper words of devotion and love, kiss his neck and bury his fingers in his lover’s hair. But that was the conundrum, wasn’t it? To have that back, his general would have to die, and he would suffer a thousand deaths himself before wishing that on Ja’far.

And so he found himself in the harbor each sleepless night, standing on the dock and staring out at the sea. It seemed so vast, impossible to get beyond. Badr offered the idea of sailing, but what was the point? There were no adventures to be had. None of his generals had died, or if they had, they went to a different Heaven than new Sindria. He rather hoped it was the former. Perhaps there were new lands to discover, new dungeons to conquer, but the victory would seem hollow without his allies.

The boat had disappeared after the first night. He’d gone back when their meal was through, just as Esra had promised he could, and explored it from stem to stern, but it had yielded no better results than his first run through. When he went to see it the next morning, it was gone without a trace. It didn’t keep him from returning often, sometimes sitting on the end of the dock, sometimes pacing its length, trying to figure out a way home.

Once, in desperation, he threw himself off the end and attempted to swim back. While he never got tired, whenever he looked back he remained only a few miles from the shore. There were no currents keeping him in place. He had to imagine it was the nature of the place, to keep him from harming himself. He wondered if harm was even _possible_ here. More than once, he came close to finding out, hovering a knife over his skin before laying it down again, realizing it was a fool’s errand.

He thought about asking his mother to teach him how to watch the living, but it seemed wrong. As often as he asked Ja’far to spy for him, he had never violated the younger man’s privacy. It was a dance they kept to: how far could he push, how far would the other allow himself to be pushed. Spying was out of bounds of the dance, and would ruin the entire thing. To break that in death would be admitting defeat. Besides, he wasn’t sure how he would bear it if Ja’far was in trouble, or worse, if he had found a new bedmate.

So he simply went back to the dock, again and again and again.

It had become a ritual to the former king. He’d settled into life in Heaven, only visiting the dock at night to watch the small waves. Like the day he’d arrived, the water remained mostly calm, lapping gently at the shore and dock posts. It soothed him, reminding him of his childhood in Tison, as well as the various journeys he’d made by sea. He’d always been able to read the waves, and he was relieved to learn that didn’t change after he died.

Which is why it was odd when one night, he sensed a boat coming towards the island. That alone was enough to fill him with dread – no trading boats came in at this dock. There was a large harbor on the other side of the island meant for that purpose, just where there was in old Sindria. No, as far as Sinbad could tell, this was merely an entry point for departed souls like himself.

He looked around, expecting to see someone who knew the incoming life. Surely they would be here, the way his parents had come for him. But no one else stood on the beach, nor did there appear to be anyone coming out of the city. Was this person the first in their family to die, perhaps? Sinbad pulled himself to his feet, watching intently as the little boat appeared over the horizon. The new person seemed to have the same thought he had when he first arrived, standing at the bow in an attempt to glean information from his surroundings.

As soon as the person on the boat was close enough to be made out, his heart stopped. At the rail stood a man in plain white linen, the same outfit he’d worn, matching his snowy hair. Green eyes widened as the other man recognized who was waiting for him on the dock. Sinbad had a very nasty case of déjà vu. He stayed silent as the boat slid into place, allowing its passenger to disembark.

The younger man smiled at his king with trembling lips. “I’m sorry, Sin. I tried to help rule your country for as long as I could.”

Sinbad wrapped his arms around Ja’far and began to weep, a mixture of relief and anger and grief.

But at least they were together again.

**Author's Note:**

> Please visit my tumblr at GamerMattJeevas (or anxioushamster.co.vu, it's all the same site)! I talk in more detail about my fics there and love chatting.


End file.
